


A Responsible Owner

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Castiel, Alternate Universe, Angst, Captive Castiel, Dean Winchester & Castiel friendship, Gagged Castiel, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Sam Winchester Rescues Castiel, Sam Winchester is protective of Castiel, Vet Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:44:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s late at night, his clinic is closed, but when someone shows up hammering at the door, Sam decides not to turn them away.He’s too responsible a vet for that, too caring.Except the man who barges in doesn’t have a dog, he has an angel, and Sam has to make a choice.





	A Responsible Owner

Sam’s just turning off the light in the examination room when he hears someone pressing the buzzer.

It doesn’t have the urgent dog-hit-by-car feel to it, though whoever is doing the pressing certainly sounds impatient (they pulse it a few times then just hold their finger down, making Sam grind his teeth), and there’s no banging on the door or desperate cries for help.

But they officially closed an hour ago, and Sam’s just doing his typical once around the place to make sure it’s clean, orderly and ready for when they reopen tomorrow.

He comes out into the reception area, and sees a man standing at the door. He has a leash in his hand, but Sam can’t see what it’s attached to.

When the man sees him, he points to his watch, and tugs on the door handle.

His manner immediately makes up Sam’s mind for him. Unless this is an emergency, he’s going to send this guy packing. 

But Sam’s no sooner opened the door than the guy steps forward as if he just expects Sam to move back and let him in.

“Hey, hold on,” Sam says, though the guy is short him by a foot and maybe twenty pounds and a lot of muscle, so there’s no chance he’s forcing his way in. “We’re closed.”

“I had an appointment,” the man insists and that entitled tone of voice is just cementing Sam’s resolve to turn this guy away.

Then he remembers the 4pm no show, the appointment their temp receptionist took without taking down any real details.

Just that someone had a difficult animal they wanted seen to.

“You missed it,” Sam says, drily, and motions to the wall clock behind him, “by about three hours.”

“Well, that’s not my fault,” the man says, and he tugs angrily on the leash. “It didn’t want to come, fought me the whole damn way.”

Pets can be difficult, and especially about going to the vet, Sam knows it. But the way the guy is tugging on the leash is starting to rile him. And what animal has he got, exactly, that could cause three hours of delay?

“We’re still closed,” he says. “You can call us tomorrow to reschedule.”

Whatever is on the other end of that leash tugs back and the man, his action mostly out of sight given Sam’s position at the door, lashes out with the strap end, making contact with flesh.

There’s no sound of pain, but Sam knows that had to have hurt.

“Don’t do that,” he warns.

“It’s been testing me all day! Look, if you won’t help me tonight, I’m either taking it to a shelter or it’s going in the river in a sack. Your choice but I’m not putting up with this behaviour!”

For a moment, Sam’s tempted to grab the guy and slap him, or threaten to toss him in the river and see how he likes it.

But he knows this guy will make good on his threat; he’s got that air about him.

So he resigns himself to at least looking at the guy’s animal, more for its sake than his, and steps back to let them in.

The guy shoulders the door open, because he has to turn around and grip the leash with both hands. Whatever he’s brought, it _definitely_ doesn’t want to come in, and Sam watches the guy cursing it until he gives one final hard pull (just when Sam was about to intervene again) and then he staggers into the office with something at his back.

It’s not a pet.

Sam can’t believe his eyes.

Standing there, looking around in fright, is an angel.

He’s about six foot, dark messy hair, wildly terrified blue eyes, and untidy black wings tucked in but still trembling against his back.

His wrists are bound in front of him, and the leash the man’s been yanking on is knotted tightly around the rope trapping his hands together.

Sam can already see chafing and blood, but worse is the gag. It’s one of those expensive affairs he’s seen on TV advertising and Amazon, a thick strip of leather that covers the angel’s whole jaw; Sam knows that right now, inside the angel’s mouth, is a metal bit that keeps him from biting or speaking and especially from using his true voice, because the bit extends down into the throat. 

He’s also heard of the damage overuse can cause, and Sam just hopes the angel’s not been wearing that thing for too long.

He’s so horrified by what he’s seeing, that it takes him a moment to realise the angel’s _owner_ is staring impatiently at him, and has probably been speaking to him.

Sam glares at him. “What?”

“I was saying, I can leave him overnight. What time can I pick him up tomorrow?”

Sam gives him a blank stare, but his attention is drawn to the angel who’s looking between them both, and around the room, as if looking for any opening to get out of there.

Sam can’t blame him, but he’s glad his focus is there because what the guy says next is terrifying and draws an immediate reaction from the bound celestial.

“For the docking,” he says. “Just the usual: clip the wings and if you can snip his vocal cords while he’s under. How much is it going to cost?”

The angel eyes widen, and Sam says pain and fear and desperation, and he readies himself. He expects him to lash out, at either or both of them.

But that isn’t what happens. The angel pulls once, hard, against the leash, and it earns him what Sam suspects isn’t the first hard slap across the face.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps, though his protests go ignored by the fucking horror that dragged the angel in, because he switches to slapping the angel with the end of the leash.

And through it all, Sam notices the angel doesn’t take his eyes off him, and everything he can’t say with his voice Sam can read in his eyes.

 _Please_.

But there’s no hope there, like the angel doesn’t expect a request for mercy to be anything more than ignored.

He doesn’t even make a sound as the leash whips sharply across his cheek, this time hard enough to leave a reddened welt that immediately starts to spot with blood.

The angel looks away, gaze dropping to the ground, and there’s something so dejected and hopeless in his slumped body, even as the beating continues, that Sam can’t take it anymore.

And that’s before the guy yanks the angel around, and starts lashing at his wings.

The angel can’t make a sound, but the pain of that is obvious in the way he jerks, wings spasming from the abuse.

He has a hold of the bastard beating on the angel before he even registers his action.

One hand grabs his wrist, twisting it sharply, until the leash falls out of his now limp (and possibly broken) grip. Sam’s never forgotten the countless hours his dad hauled him and Dean out of bed before the sun was even up to make them practice how to disarm somebody, how to choke somebody out, how to kill somebody if there was no other option.

This won’t go that far, Sam realises, as he slams his elbow into the guy’s nose. This fucker might be happy to beat up a helpless restrained angel, but Sam knows he’ll have no appetite for fighting _him_.

He’s not wrong. The man staggers back, with a pained howl, hands cupped his nose.

Blood’s already streaking his fingers.

“You bastard!” It comes out like his mouth is stuffed full of cotton balls. “I’ll call the cops!”

Maybe he will. But that doesn’t worry Sam. 

“There’s a payphone down the street,” he snaps, and then he’s shoving the guy out of the door, ignoring his furious screams of theft, and barked orders for the angel to come to him.

Sam shuts the door, locks it, and drops the blind. He steps back, breathless from the adrenaline, and watches until the shadow on the other side of the door moves away, and the street is quiet again.

He turns, slowly, unsure what to expect now he has a captive, hurt angel alone with him in the shop.

This might go badly wrong.

The angel is staring at him, perspiration beading his face, his whole body shaking.

He looks like he’d run if he was able, but from the look of him Sam doubts he could take a step.

And then his eyes roll back, and Sam barely has time to catch him before the angel pitches onto the floor.

++

There are not a lot of angels on Earth; in his time at college, and then training, and even in the practices where he worked until he had enough money to set up his own clinic, he’s seen maybe ten in total.

Most of them he encountered when Dean asked him to help out a colleague, Sheriff Mills, who ran a sanctuary for them.

It was a compassionate undertaking, but one cursed from the outset and ultimately futile and heartbreaking.

Of the angels Jodie had managed to rescue, four were in such poor condition that they had to be euthanized, and the rest just passed on by themselves.

That, Sam decides, is not going to be the fate of _this_ angel. 

No matter what he has to do.

But actions matter most, and so Sam picks up the angel carefully, takes him through to the examination room, sets him down on the table, and gets to work.

The very first thing he does is cut off the angel’s clothes, some weird ensemble that would convince Sam he was an accountant, or something, except for the bondage gear and the wings.

But he can’t run a drip through a trench coat or shirt, and only once he has a line in (providing pain relief and a strong sedative) can he feel like it's safe to proceed.

Because he’s going to untie this angel, and then do some things the poor creature isn’t going to like.

Him being unconscious for that is probably safer for both of them.

He starts with the gag, undoing the buckle behind the angel’s head and then gingerly eases it out of his mouth.

The tight edge of the gag leaves sharp marks on the angel’s face, but it’s the trickle of blood from behind his parted lips that frightens Sam.

He sets the gag aside, and picks up the pliable scope, and very carefully eases it into the angel’s throat.

He sees some tearing, a lot of swelling, but the damage looks like it’ll heal. It might be a while before the angel can speak but he will be able to once that swelling one’s down.

Then Sam unties his wrists, and curses. At the shredded torn skin underneath. He cleans both wrists thoroughly, not missing the bumpy scar tissue he can see through the fresher wounds, and wonders just how longer this poor angel had been subjected to such cruelty.

He wraps the wrists carefully, and then needs to step back.

What comes next will be worse, and take a while, and Sam’s conscious that while the police aren’t here _yet_ , that idiot who had the angel might still call them.

He sits down, gathers himself, and takes out his cell to phone Dean.

His brother answers on the third ring, and he sounds like Sam just woke him up.

Sam asks, and he did, and he apologises.

And then he tells his big brother what happened.

Dean listens, and Sam can hear his anger in how he breathes. If Dean had been here, maybe that guy wouldn’t have been walking out, but it’s a different help that Sam needs now.

“Don’t worry about that piece of shit,” Dean tells him. “I’ll speak to Rufus, make sure we get a heads up if anybody gets a call. If this guy tries to make waves, he’s gonna go under fast.”

They talk a little more, Dean warning Sam to be careful, because while angels aren’t beasts, the old saying about wounded animals being more dangerous still holds here.

Once he’s hung up, Sam puts on fresh gloves and carefully turns the angel onto his front. 

The wings hang limply against his back, and Sam carefully stretches them out so he can see the tender stripes where the angel’s _owner_ lashed them.

Some feathers need to be pulled, and Sam carefully cleanses the area. Luckily there’s no need for stitches, or even dressings, so once he’s done, Sam gently eases the angel onto his side so his wings can drape as comfortably as possible behind him.

Then, all that’s left to do is wait.

++

It’s maybe two hours later when the angel finally comes to. Sam’s removed the drip, having gradually weaned him from the sedative; it’s not that he thinks the angel couldn’t use the additional pain relief, but coming to with a needle in his arm probably isn’t the best way to assure him he’s safe.

And that, he knows, is exactly what the angel doesn’t believe when his eyes flutter open and he comes to full awareness.

He rolls off the table, staggers back, and pushes himself into a corner.

His wings fold in behind them, as if he’s trying to make them as small and hidden as possible, and Sam’s heart breaks a little when the angel tries to check them while keeping an eye on the stranger in front of him at the same time.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “It’s okay, I got rid of the man who hurt you. It’s just us here, and I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

It’s probably going to take more than that to convince an abused angel that he’s in no danger. Sam winces in sympathy as the angel touches a raw part of his wing, and turns, opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something.

Sam’s not in time to stop him, and the way the angel’s face screws up, yeah, Sam knows that is definitely still hurting him.

The betrayed look on his face as he cups his throat, almost makes Sam move towards him, but that would be a bad idea.

“No, no,” he tells the angel. “I swear to you, I didn’t. The gag, it hurt your throat. But it’ll heal, the swelling will go down, and you’ll be able to speak again. You’re going to be alright.”

There’s a frustrated look on the angel’s face, and Sam shrugs, helplessly. He doesn’t know what else he can do, what else the angel needs because he can’t talk, and …

There’s a clipboard chart nearby, and a pen, and Sam slips it carefully across the examination bed so that it’s within arms reach.

The angel looks at it curiously, and Sam’s about to take it back, cursing himself for what’s obviously a dumb idea, when it moves, by itself, across the bed and into the angel’s hands.

Sam starts a little, at that, and the angel almost rolls his eyes. 

It’s such a human gesture, that Sam can’t help the grin.

He watches as the angel uncaps the pen, and writes slowly, before turning the clipboard around.

_WHO ARE YOU? WHY DID YOU HELP ME? WHAT DO YOU WANT?_

Right. 

“Sam,” he says. “My name is Sam, and I’m a vet, and we...uh...sometimes, we treat angels here, but not that often, you know, because…”

Clearly the angel knows what a vet is, because he bristles a little, and Sam holds his hands up apologetically.

“Nothing like what he wanted. I don’t believe...Look, you, other angels, you’re not animals. He had no right to do what he did. And all I want is to help you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.

“Can you tell me your name?”

The angel starts writing again, and Sam waits eagerly to see what he’s putting down.

 _HE’LL CALL THE POLICE. HE DID THE LAST TIME I GOT AWAY. THEY JUST FOUND ME AND GAVE ME BACK TO HIM. THEY’LL COME TO GET ME AGAIN_.

“No,” Sam says, a little more forcefully than he’d meant, and the angel flinches. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen. Look, my brother…. He’s an FBI agent, that’s kind of a police officer. I called him, and he’s going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The angel nods, and Sam has to remind himself it’s likely that he knows what the FBI is, that even kept as a pet he probably knows a lot about humans.

Most of it probably isn’t good.

Sam hopes to change that.

“Is there anything I can get you, something you need? I mean, you’re probably cold, I can get a shirt or something and make holes in it for your wings.”

Because he’s just noticing now, and kicking himself, that there are tiny goosebumps on the angel’s skin, and his feathers are puffing up a little as his wings grow less tense.

It’s a sign the angel is relaxing around him, and Sam feels absurdly happy at that.

There’s a moment of rapid scribbling, and then the angel passes the clipboard back to him.

 _CLOTHES, YES, PLEASE. AND MY NAME IS CASTIEL._.

++

Cas whines a protest as Sam slowly runs his fingers through the angel’s feathers, and wriggles to get away from his touch.

“Don’t be cruel,” he protests, and Sam can’t help but grin and then kiss away the frown from that gorgeous face.

It feels like more than six months since that night Alastair dragged the angel into Sam’s clinic, and he’d be the first to admit, he never saw this as being how things turned out.

That Cas would show a trust him in Sam was moved by, given that he’d never had a human show him any kindness before then.

And that, even once recovered, Cas had seemed almost reluctant to leave. Sam had no problem with that, since he’d felt the same, and it hadn’t taken long for them both to realise that Cas was staying.

“I didn’t mean stop touching,” Cas complains. “Just stop _tickling_.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and he turns them so Cas is beneath him, and he starts touching Cas in all the ways he knows the angel likes to be touched.

It’s hard though not to think that if Alistair hadn’t chosen his clinic, or if Sam hadn’t answered the door, where Cas would be now.

Alistair's threat, about drowning Cas, still haunts his dreams, as did the treatment Cas had suffered before Sam even knew he existed.

“Don’t think about him,” Cas says. He cups Sam’s face, draws his focus from the past, always seeming to know when Sam’s lost there. “He doesn’t matter.”

He doesn’t _now_ , and they have Dean to thank for that. Dean who found out that Alastair wasn’t just a dodgy middle class business man with a nice house and a pool (and it’s Dean who finds out that Alastair dumped Cas in it, once, out of spite, and that’s how he found out angels can't swim).

Alastair has a violent, vicious streak, not that Sam’s surprised at that. But it’s Dean who’s there to deal with it, when Alastair shows up one night to take Cas back.

Shows up armed, and determined he’s not leaving without his _property_.

As far as Dean’s concerned, Cas is family now (and Sam’s beyond grateful that Dean’s not just accepted Cas, but found his own relationship with the angel) so he doesn’t hold back, not physically, and not legally.

The result of that is a lot of Alastair’s past offences catching up with him; once he gets out of the hospital, he stands trial and his sentence means even if he behaves himself and gets out early, it’ll still be five years before they ever need to worry about him again.

“I just...I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad you’re _here_.”

Cas flexes his wings, uses them to enclose them and pull Sam even nearer to his body. 

“It’s you I have to thank for that, you and Dean.” Cas kisses him gently, but Sam pulls back with a fake jealous look on his face.

“Yeah, I hope you don’t thank my brother the same way.”

Cas scrunches up his nose. “Sam, that’s just wrong.”

Chuckling, Sam leans in to kiss the angel again. Yeah, maybe enough thinking about his brother for a while.


End file.
